A September 11th Tragedy
by csijenniferlynn
Summary: This one-shot is my very sad response to CSI Forever Online's current fanfiction challenge.  I, like you, was affected today by the sadness of recollections of September 11th, 2001, and this short fic deals with that pain in a CSI setting. Get a tissue!


Notes: I am writing this one-shot on 9/11/2011, so consider this fair warning that you will need tissues. CSI Forever Online issued a challenge involving writing a piece consisting of fewer than 1000 words in which Grissom and Sara undergo some sort of change in their life together, and this is my response. I have never written anything quite so tragic, and I have never attempted smut before (I still really haven't… it's just not my thing, so the paragraph dedicated to "smut" is surely laughable to those of you skilled at writing such scenes), so I am not confident in posting this. Is this just too sad to publish? Does anyone like reading such things?

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Gilbert Grissom didn't believe in karma, coincidence, or fate. In the same way he had refused all those years ago to believe that Paul Millander intended to kill him because his birthday happened to fall on August 17th just like every other one of his victims, so he also refused to believe there was any reason to fear terrorism on September 11th, 2011. What had happened ten years ago was tragic, to be sure, but no reason to be afraid to fly.

The early morning found him standing in the bedroom he shared with Sara in the home they had finally made together after all those years of denying the soul-deep bond they shared. He had just walked out of the bathroom, dressed in a towel, hair still damp from the shower he'd just taken. Sara was sitting on the bed, back straight, the dark expression in her eyes demanding an explanation from him yet again.

"Sara, I'll be fine. You know I'll be fine."

"Dammit, Gil, why do you have to leave today? Can't you just change your flight to tomorrow?"

"Why? You know as well as I do that there's no such thing as coincidence and besides, the flight today will be less crowded- some people listen to their spouses and don't want to travel on a day like today." Grissom smirked at Sara as he admitted he wasn't heeding her advice in the slightest.

"Gil, I just- have you been watching any of the memorial services?" Sara was obviously distraught, which surprised Grissom to some extent. Sara wasn't typically squeamish or superstitious. She had been affected by the horrifying events of September 11th ten years ago, just as every American capable of understanding the impact of the fallen twin towers, the destruction at the Pentagon, and the downed flight in the Pennsylvania field was, but she had not personally known any of the victims, and was therefore less permanently scarred by the events than many. In fact, Grissom had always assumed she, along with himself and their colleagues, made it through the events of September 11th with less emotional scarring than nearly every other American because they had plenty of experience shutting out the basic human emotions of fear and sadness; being detached from it all was a necessary job requirement.

"No, Sara, I haven't. Look, I feel sorry for the families who lost loved ones and I hate the thought that terrorism struck our country just as much as the next person, but the coverage of the event ten years ago was enough for me to watch. I remember it. I remember how I felt." He walked over to Sara, sat down on the bed next to her, and held her in his arms. He could feel her crying against his shoulder, and his heart broke for her. She rarely cried.

"Sara, do you really need me to cancel my flight? I really don't want to. It'll cost an exorbitant amount to change the flight at this point, but if you really can't deal with me flying today, I'll wait until tomorrow."

"I'm sorry. I don't know what my problem is. I know you'll be fine. It's okay. Just go. Besides," Sara added with a small smile, "the sooner you leave, the sooner you'll be back, right?"

"Right." Grissom smiled affectionately at his wife. He kissed her cheek. It tasted of salt. "Sara?"

"Mmm?" Sara's eyes were on the small TV mounted on their bedroom wall, on which images of the twin towers crumbling were rolling across the screen.

Grissom switched the TV off. "Sara?"

"What?"

"I want to make you happy."

"You do."

"No, I mean, I want you. You know, I _want_ you. Now. Before I go. I want your scent on me while I fly."

Grissom had never before made love to Sara while she was crying. She readily participated, but her eyes glistened with tears the entire time. Their love-making was slow and full of gentle conversation; Grissom was concerned and Sara was insistent that she was happy and wanted to continue, that she just couldn't shake the feeling of sadness for the losses experienced ten years ago. She insisted that she wanted to be left with the lingering scent of her husband on the sheets she'd be using alone for the next two weeks, and so she brought Grissom to climax with the same finesse and ease as always, even though a tear or two mingled with the typical moisture of love-making.

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Several hours later, Grissom kissed Sara goodbye and boarded a plane headed for a layover in Chicago. The flight, as Grissom had predicted, was not crowded. He rested his head against the cool glass of the window as the plane began its descent into O'Hare, and was suddenly startled to see flames erupt from the engine turbine a few yards away from his window. Within seconds, the plane was shuddering in the air, and the pilot was speaking over the intercom. Grissom stared at the flames, which now engulfed the entire wing. He heard not one word the pilot said, not one scream from any of his fellow terrified passengers, and not one panicked command from any of the flight attendants. As he stared at the flames now licking the window inches from his face, Grissom believed in coincidence, or fate, or whatever you want to call it. He wished he could tell Sara.

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Sara saw it on the news before she got the phone call. She knew the flight number. She knew what had happened. She knew that even if she never washed her sheets again, Grissom's scent wouldn't last forever. Everything had changed. She wept.


End file.
